


Songbirds

by Nonja24



Category: jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Apocalypse, Multi, Original Content - Freeform, alternative universe, bad things happen, death?, good vs bad, they got to save the world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonja24/pseuds/Nonja24
Summary: Odette Gallagher is known by her online pseudonym, "the Irish Songbird." She's a YouTube singer-songwriter, artist and current dabbling actress. She has collected a fanbase of eight million subscribers and is best friend to some very famous faces on YouTube, including Mark Fischbach and Sean McLoughlin. Together, they all keep a terrible secret that could wake you up to the truth.There are wonders in this world you don't understand, wonders that would surely destroy you if they could and something has woken up one of the most dangerous of them all. Lurking in the forgotten realms of our imagination exists the very creature who could destroy life as we know it, by giving life to the very things we have created. She's offered them a way out and the only ones who can stop her don't even know she exists.The only hope she has of successfully destroying man-kinds future is by entrusting the fate of our world in the hands of one particular pink-stashed, show-host who has his eyes on the endgame. It's going to take everybody to stop him from breaking the forth wall and destroying the world. If they fail, you'll realise there are wonders in this world that should stay hidden.





	1. The Other

 In this book, you will find an alternative view on how alter egos are approached from their relative and created storylines made by _their_ original creators. Some origins will change to fit the difference between our world and theirs, backstories may differ to the original cannon plots, but that is how belief works. We change the way things are to suit thoughts and needs, which is how this story works. 

 The alter egos live in a completely mirror like universe to our own, where they live slightly normal lives, dictated by their own decisions and thoughts. Our belief and imagination helps stabilise this world they live in, provides a sort of harmony between our world and theirs. Their world is infinite, filled not only with the alters of YouTubers personalities, but all sorts from all manners of creativity, mild thoughts to extensive recognition.

  We create these creatures, our  _Seconds_  or our _Identicals_ and they find their home in a place they call the  _Other._  

  In this book, our  _Seconds_  are capable of manifesting in our world as physical human forms if they have the energy for it, but they are only visible to those who have the  _sight:_ obviously, meaning those who have knowledge that this world even exists and know of their own alters who live within this world. The  _Seconds_  mingle as one universe, much like we do in our own. They have friends and responsibilities, some follow the rules and others break them.

  Usually, as figments of belief, though probably very much alive as you and I, they remain in their own world where they live a relatively normal life until they become the  _Forgotten_ - beings we have created for a one time purpose thing and have never returned to again. Once a  _Second_  becomes forgotten by the majority, they pretty much fade away in the  _Other._

  Confusing, right?

  Bare with me. As I was saying, there are two types of alters living in the  _Other._ As I just stated, there are those that are created through one-time means. Mostly, these are creations of artists, make-up or drawings, and they mostly exist in the _Other_  as populace. They are more or less known by most as the younger ones, those who will probably not make it to maturity and fade within time.

  Then there are the others, those our favourite YouTube personalities design and create to entice you to believe that they truly have another being living inside their heads. What they will not tell you is that they really do exist. They change their stories to keep you from learning the truth; the only way to keep them from living in our world is the distraction these personalities throw at you to keep you entertained, regardless of the consequences.

  The more you learn about  _their_ world, the more likely you are to be sucked into their creation and that is what some hope for. Another friend - another way out. Anything from an imaginary friend to the monster you dressed up as for Halloween could come into existence. So they keep the harsher side of this reality to themselves to protect you from enduring the same problems they do; after all, these Seconds are capable of possessing their human form and changing the tale. You've seen it happen, haven't you? 

  Most don't, though. Most of these  _Seconds_ are more or less interested in manipulating the existence of their  _Original -_ their creator in other words, who are referred to by the majority as their original forms. There are some Originals who have lived with their  _Seconds_ since childhood, most would refer to them as imaginary friends, little figments of our creativity who are supposed to disappear when you're old enough not to believe in Santa Claus anymore. Others more or less come into existence because of emotions. Fear and anger are one of the most powerful causes of manifestation.

  Take Darkiplier, for instance, he enjoys control and acknowledgement of all Mark's doing's, but take that away from him, starve him too long and he becomes extremely dangerous, like a wild animal desperate to eat; often attempts to manipulate Mark's consciousness and scare the viewers to believe in him again. You've seen him glance at you when Mark's lost a few seconds of awareness. 

  And then you have the likes of Antiseptieye: the personification of all Sean's fears. It's a strong emotion, something you humans bury down so far that you sometimes forget it's extraordinary capability to create something living. He so enjoys tormenting our poor Irish laddy. Take away the recognition of his existence and he becomes a homicidal maniac; he's already hurt Sean before and you all thought it was a joke, a well played piece of entertainment.

  Least not forget Nightingale. You don't know who she is yet. She's the kind of _Second_ that exists to protect her world and yours, she's lived far longer than most of you have even known your capability to create and design worlds that aren't really there, but I can assure you, when you look at the face of an angel, don't always think heavenly. 

  As of late, these alters have become more widely acknowledged on YouTube, not only by their Originals, but the fans also. The fans who populate the belief of their tales and give them strength in a world created by our belief, imagination and emotions. We feed their existence with our energies and that leaves the grey area - a small area in their world that hosts even the unknown for them. Imagination is a dangerous thing, creativity  _must_ have a stopping point before we create something capable of physically manifesting in our world, something  _Second's_ are incapable of doing without a huge source of energy. 

  This world exists because we believe in something more. We give these creatures life, but we cage them away from our world because our minds are just not capable of handling that kind of truth. Those who have created, who are  _aware_ struggle every day with their own existence and the knowledge of this world. There are rules, but not all who live in the  _Other_ are determined to follow them. There are some that would rather walk our streets and cause the havoc they were designed for upon us. 

  Not all  _Seconds_ are dangerous, not all want to harm you. 

  But there are some that do just wish you'd stop breathing.


	2. A Demon Calls

_original posting date:_ 17.02.2017

 **|** a demon calls **|**

 Mark woke to the bitter caress of a chill that at first, he didn't recognise to be the nip of his room when he left his bedroom window open. It was a harsh, stabbing sensation like little pins and needles all over the body. His eyes wouldn't open immediately, so he lay there as still as a statue,  _screaming._

 There was no sound. Parted, dry lips were open to imitate the sound of a scream and he was  _sure_ he could hear himself breathing, but the longer he cried out for help, the quicker he realised it was only the yell of the voice inside his head. His own voice. Echoing and dying. It was the sound that nobody would hear apart from Mark. 

 The cogs in his mind were only beginning to grind to the awareness that he wasn't even awake. The recent dreams he had been having felt so real, that sometimes he fell into these horrendous nightmares that would sometimes take  _hours_ to wake from. Further and further into the dark, shadowy corners of his mind where even the slap of the cold against his cheek would be felt when he went back to his reality.

 His fingers flinched, perfectly like a coma patient coming to awareness of his world, his limbs began to wake up. His eyes flickered open . . . to see nothing at all. Just a pitch black emptiness around him that seemed to have swallowed him up the second he fell asleep. Had he fallen asleep? He couldn't remember. 

 Limbs twitched to life, slowly, until the last thing left to do was just breathe. His chest knew the right movements, his heart pounding against his chest, but his lungs were constricted tight. His fingers crawled to his chest, pressing down to try and bring life back into his body, a desperate wheeze strangling the air with the pathetic noises of a dying beast begging for his lungs to inflate with oxygen -

 The unGodly sound echoing that room made him cringe. It tightened his chest until he rolled onto his hands and knees, drawing himself up with all the strength he could muster. His fist pounded his chest as if that would help remind his lungs what their job was. Dry lips wide as he gasped for air . . . he could just see his fingertips of the palm pressed to the floor begin to fade out of existence, blurring as dots of colour danced across his vision. 

  _B r e a t h e._

The command was simple. A human need ordered to do as it was designed for and he felt the impact of his lungs expanding to their full size as he sucked in every drop of oxygen they could hold. It took a few moments for his chest to adjust, working out the burn of the deprivation until the only remnants left of his struggle was the occasional tremble of his hands as he collapsed to his ass and fell against a stone cold wall. 

 As his eyes peeled open in the hopes that the start was because the nightmare had already passed, Mark's first distraction was the ceiling. Any normal person knew what their ceiling looked like from their bed, so when he looked at the darkness manifesting above him as if it were alive, he stilled in place. The shadows crawled contently, guarding him in some sort of twisted manner, hid a ceiling he would have loved to see.

 He was  _here_ again - a different here, but it was here nonetheless. And that's when Mark's body registered the cold again and the hairs on the back of his neck flicked up in warning, watching as the shadows overhead swarmed into a mass in the corner of the "room", burrowing through a tiny hole until he was left in a figment of space that looked endless, but small at the same time.

 He was alone.

 That's what frightened him more than anything else. 

 Not the darkness, not the  _here_ \- being alone, because when he was alone, it meant that  _he_ was playing games. Mark exercised the muscles of his forearms, uncertain whether he should move or stay. There were no jump scares this time. He wasn't supposed to be here, not right now. 

 Mark didn't remember falling asleep, he certainly couldn't recall going to bed, but he remembered who he was talking too before it happened . . . Chocolate orbs flickered open once again. With what little energy he had, Mark shifted an elbow to the floor until he could prop himself up on his hands; even that took some effort that left the limbs shaking.

 Palms flat on the ground, he lifted himself up with a small whine of pain. It was like a tear of the muscle, burning through his spine and his calves as every fibre of his being woke from the shock of this reality; a reality he needed to leave. This world posted a danger to him, certainly physically the longer he stayed here.

 _Get up._ _You can do this, just_ get up.

 It took a long few seconds bracing sturdy palms against the floor and manoeuvring himself into the easiest position to get at least to his knees until he succeeded. Every movement was a struggle. He'd never felt so numb before. This world drained him of everything he had because that was the only way  _they_ fed from him. 

 The thought made him cringe as Mark finally found his feet, arched over to heave as if he was going to be sick. And then he felt it, the small searing through his lower back, crawling up his spine as if in reminder that he wasn't really here and here all the same. Something happened to "him" in reality, maybe ripped from his body.

 Their reality never really made sense anymore. Mark had found a way to live with it, but that didn't mean it was any less of a mental challenge to battle what torments they threw at him this time around; considering where he was, he knew who had taken the steering wheel and dragged him out of reality.

 Stumbling now, Mark found himself bumping into something solid, although there was nothing there to justify that there was indeed something in his way. That was  _new._  Mark had woken up in some pretty strange places before, never a tunnel. When his palms braced to either side of him, he could feel the cold exchange of nothingness against his fingertips. 

 The world was wide, but his tomb was small.

 "The hell?" he muttered, more or less to himself. 

 Quickly, Mark turned, finding another wall in the way of where he had just came from; a small stumble and now he was trapped in a tunnel of sorts with no distinctive ceiling and two ways to go with no indications of just how  _far_ they went on. It wasn't just any nightmare, it was a mind game. He had to remind himself of that, it was what  _he_ fed from after all.

 The satisfaction of watching Mark crumble was what he lived for, driving him insane to enjoy what happened to the human body. Every game he played was to see just how much the mortal could take, even if it was piece by piece until he had nothing left inside to stop  _him_ from taking over, something that was promised would never happen again. Mark couldn't risk all of that getting out again.

 "Fuck," he hissed, looking down either end of the  _corridor_. 

 Mark pondered which way would take him out and which way would take him further in, though knowing this place, there was a chance that both lead endlessly nowhere and everywhere at the same time. They were down the rabbit hole after all. Time never seemed to make sense.  _He_ never made any sense, but maybe that was his fault. 

 Looking between the two ways, Mark realised that either way he decided to go, between here and walking distance, there were long tunnels designed to exhaust him.  _His_ prison had just become Mark's. With that thought in mind, he finally decided to go left and heavily, his feet managed to carry him in that direction. 

 Something seemed okay with "left". The indication that maybe help was trying to lure him out and there was no frantic thumping to indicate that he was going the wrong way. As Mark started walking, vibrations behind the  _wall_  picked up, only sensed when he dragged his hand against the cold concrete in order to make sure that the wall never left his side. 

 Even though there was no noise, not even the tapping of his feet on the floor, everything seemed so loud. The vibrations against the wall, his breathing, even thinking sounded as if there were drums prancing off in his ear. He would have been weary, screaming by now that he knew something was there, following him. The crescendo would warn him but it was too quiet to be heard, prowling after him as he set off for his escape. 

 He didn't hear the footsteps, the faint drumming of indication behind the wall masked the light steps until there was a thunderous  _bang_  nearby. Mark jerked to a halt, collapsing his shoulder against the wall. He compressed himself into a tiny ball as if the thud had happened right at his side. 

 Silence again. Following him like a ghost until only his breathing could be heard. It happened again, right against his shoulder, almost throwing him from the wall. A warning:  _look out!_ Any other day, Mark would have realised running would have been a good option, but exhausted and still numb from confusion, it was too late to realise he was no longer alone in this tunnel - company had finally found him.

 As the body registered, the familiar form slipping into the existence of what Mark's eyes perceived as light, he watched the curve of the upper torso swing back and then come directly at him. His feet became concrete, as a blow meant to do some serious injury came down across his skull and everything went white. 

 The force threw Mark stumbling until his head once again collided with the wall and his body, dazed now, slumped to the floor. A warm ooze began dribbling down the side of his face, alerted him to the injury, but he didn't have time to play nurse on the flesh. His body twitched on the floor, moaning pathetically as the pain registered and every fibre of his being alighted with agony. 

 Mark rolled onto his back. "Motherf-!"

 Pressing digits to the wound cutting a good length from temple to cheekbone, Mark looked in the rough direction of where his attacker had come from, only to find the blurred mixture of light and dark swirling contently. His vision was distorted and he was struck down into such a vulnerable position that all he could do was hope that something would respond to a mental command to get up.

 Then he heard it: the static laughter nearby, a gleeful chime that this had been too easy. Mark grit his teeth, elbows propped as he dragged his knees under him. The faint drumming beneath his fingertips registered like the beating of his own heart, frantic.  _Warning._  Too dazed from the blow to the head, he didn't see the foot coming at him.

 Mark gagged helplessly as he was knocked onto his back again, able to rasp for some of the cold air that wrapped around him like a blanket. Every breath came through gritted teeth as he fought to find balance again; he was a dying target and with little knowledge where  _he_ was going to come from next, Mark knew he had little to no chance to fight back.

 It was these kind of games that he feared the most; an injured animal to a blood thirsty predator. If Mark had his way, this would be a fair fight, but nothing about his opponent was fair. He felt neglected, ill-used and undermined, as if it was his duty to remind Mark that he still existed, even if it was in his nightmares.

 Simple things became a mountain to climb, meagre tasks a colossal thing, all because  _he_ wanted to come out and play. Here, Mark was helpless, just like the characters in his games and the decisions he made that affected them. Ignoring the blood coating his fingers as he dabbed the wound to his head, he attempted to sit up in some kind of position that would offer him protection against the footsteps calmly coming his way.

 His ribs ached, teeth chattered unwillingly in the cold. Each time he made move to get up, he failed miserably. His limbs felt too heavy from the concussion (and what felt like cracked ribs as he supported one arm around the bony cage) and that's when he heard the thumping again, a sound reminder that he was not alone here. As much as he felt as if he was, he was not  _alone._

 Mark registered the sound as he whimpered, a raspy breath. It wasn't like the games where you could get up and wrap a bandage around your arm to heal yourself. This was "reality", a terrifying place where pain was real and help was too far away. Here, Mark was physically alone, with only the desperate vibrations beneath him as a comfort, determined to make him get up and fight back as he lay there sprawled on the floor.

 "I have been waiting to do that for a  _very_ long time."

 Mark's head twitched in the direction of the voice. He recognised it, at least beneath the low ringing in his ear as he managed to prop himself onto an elbow. He knew running was pointless; he could only try and get so far. This world was a part of him, but one that was locked away because of the dangers that lurked the ever changing halls. There was always a guidance somewhere, eventually he would make it out of here and the mental repercussions would follow him into the real world. 

 A slight headache that wouldn't shift, a wheeze as if he had a cold. Something physical always followed him back. The only thing he knew for sure was that suffocating the thumping beneath him was the sounds of footsteps coming towards him, closer . . . closer . . .  _closer_ until he felt the pointed toe of a shoe jab at his ribs and he yelped in pain.

 "And it's taken a  _long_ time to get you here, Mark."

 The other was silent.

 "Longer than I'd have thought. Longer than I'd have liked." A small snarl. An animal waiting for recognition from it's downed prey before it went in for the kill. "You keep building up these walls, but they're simply not high enough."

 Mark said nothing. 

 "No cage you make can hold  _me."_

 The thought of the cage he had been ripped into made Mark cringe, curled in an awkward shape as he was half up, half off the floor to show defiance to the blur of words hissed into his ear. The voice felt so close, the smell radiating all around made him heave. Decay always followed the other; it was a tormenting smell that never shied away from reminding Mark what happened when he had no choice in letting this monster out.

 "You've become weak, Mark. I could almost pull you apart if I wanted too." There was a curt, sharp chuckle that made him flinch. "It's almost enticing to see you do this to yourself just to contain me."

 There was a taunting note sung from familiar lips as Mark cringed away from the figure. "I'm not letting you out of here -"

 A chuckle interrupted him, "I'm glad to say you don't have a choice, Mark."

 They all wanted more; it was in their design to want more, even when they were content to live how they were now. Solitude, lonely lives in the existing depths of Mark's mind. The only person in the way of that choice of freedom from this confinement and back to  _their_ world . . . was  _Mark,_ who was punishing them all for the actions of just one very playful imp, who decided to introduce himself to Mark's friend, merely to remind him of their capability as an existing presence.

 Cold, charcoal eyes fell down on the mortal beneath him, the lesser form desperate and wounded to get away, aware just what the other was capable off when it came to situation like these. In _his_ world, Mark was powerless. He hadn't even begun and already his toy was a deer in the headlights, relying on the help from the outside world. His head twitched towards the noise beneath the concrete Mark bloodied, a cruel smile twisting to his lips.

 A cage designed to keep him in, never to find the exit was keeping Mark's only help out. The others had noticed the presence of another for some time now, but it was always on the side of reality they could never touch; it wasn't like them. It wasn't  _one_ of them. It caged them inside this ever changing world while Mark gallivanted around in costumes and portrayals of their beings to please his followers; the mere presence of it alone made them all furious. 

 It wasn't here to torment Mark, drain him, destroy the human race - it was here to protect him from them. Sometimes there would be cracks in it's defences, sometimes - like now - they would be able to drag Mark into their world and it would fight them to release him, but finding one of these tears took weeks. It was a situation he would handle eventually.

 Tongue flicking out to massage his bottom lip, the figure fixed the loose, red tie that adorned his chest and let out a little heaving breath. "We've got a little time. It's so important to have you here, Mark. I feel as if you need reminding that no matter what you do, we will  _always_ exist here in your mind." 

 He softly pulled the human consciousness closer, grinning as the other whimpered, "I don't need reminding -"

 "Good," he replied sharply. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten of your responsibilities and just  _exactly_ what we are capable of."

 Eyeing the cowering human so broken on the floor, the elder shifted to comfortably perch above his prey, leering down over him with that look that said it all. He was hungry. The creature standing above him was in no greater shape, despite attempts to adjust himself correctly as if irritated by the very fabric of his existence. It had been a long time since he had seen the world - any world - with his own eyes and that withdrawal was destroying him.

 The shrivelled form crouched before his lesser on the floor and the pair exchanged a mutual dislike for one another. Dark, coal eyes looked into those soft brown ones, seeing a reflection that was all but like looking in the mirror. A thing with his face,  _Mark's_ face now hovered there, curiously wondering just how much longer this human would fight him before he gave what the demon always got in the end. The chance to have fun, to absorb the appreciation of life in their world. What Mark was looking at right now was the second of few to arrive and certainly the most dangerous of them all: capable of conscious thought, a desire to destroy but most importantly, self-control. 

 The others all had their setbacks, their weaknesses that contorted who they were, but this one carried the ability to understand what satisfaction he could gain from patience, even if it weakened him to vulnerabilities he dare deny he had. His only weakness was containment inside his "host", imprisoned for now in this human's mind until he had nothing to feed on. He lost composure, he lost the ability to maintain his natural, manipulative composure that at one point had Mark trembling in concern.

 A hungry animal dying to sink it's teeth into something eventually would break out of it's cage. It was then those brown eyes averted out of a shamed reminder what had happened the last time he compressed this creature into containment for too long. Nothing wild was designed to be caged. The shrivelled appearance of dark locks so unnaturally tamed, a suit out of place, a snarl on the whiskered lips of the animal that seized Mark by the jaw to make him look up at the distorted reflection he had given life too - all of it a terrifying reminder that even weak, he was dangerous.

 "Look at you," he mused seductively, softly running his thumb over Mark's bottom tier with curiosity. His touch cold, trembling in hunger. "Why do you fight me -" his head inclined as if out of aggravation, "- when you know what will happen eventually?"

 An empty compassion continued to brush Mark's jaw, seductively wondering when the best time to snap his neck would be, "You don't have the energy to get out -"

 "Mark, Mark, Mark," tutted the creature. 

 His fingers travelled until he seized Mark by the throat and slammed him backwards, almost straddling his lap to be  _close._  Intimidation, closing the personal space Mark threw up between himself those that had the unfortunate life of clinging to his energy to exist, best set the original from logical thinking.A thumb delicately pressed under his jaw to apply pressure to the mortal's windpipe. He could feel the bulge of Mark's Adams apple, the way he tried to hide the fact that he swallowed in fear when he realised he couldn't move.

 The creature inclined his head, smiling. 

 "These walls are faltering. Your containment is failing," he murmured tenderly, like a parent soothing a child. "I've seen it with my own eyes. There are tears as wide as doorways. This place is falling apart." He chuckled, a sharp, contorted chuckle. "There's nothing you can do about it." 

  "I  _can_ do something," he corrected breathlessly, body rigid beneath the other. 

 "Defiance," whispered the creature, almost amused. Fingers clenched the mortal's throat a little harder, smiling. "If it's a worry of whom I'll play with, I'll choose someone you don't know." A twitch of his head; his control was dissipating quickly. "You don't have to watch."

 There was a little whimper from those bloodied lips the creature idly fondled, brown eyes searching pitless orbs desperately for any indication that his attention was averted just long enough to free himself, but a quick grasp of cold fingers against his jaw forced Mark to look back at his demon. 

 "Unless you want too."

 "No!" Mark's jaw clenched, tendons in his neck taunt with anger at the mere suggestion. "I won't let you hurt some innocent person -!"

 "You won't  _let_ me?" interrupted the other, sharp enamels revealed as those words tickled the demon's side. "How adorable: you think  _you_ of all people in this world can protect them from me?"

 Slowly, he looked towards the crimson that had now dribbled down his fingers from the head wound. Those kind of wounds were nasty, but extremely bloody if you . . . hit . . . the . . . right . . . spot. There was a sudden hunger in his eyes that Mark recognised, a lust for more than just the gentle paint over his digits; he winced when the demon jerked his hand from Mark's throat out of urgent need and with his tongue, cleaned his fingers free of red. 

 A purr rumbled from the back of his throat, swallowing the irony taste, "I have missed that taste, Mark. I forgot how  _sweet_ you really are."

 "You have me," Mark hissed, "you need anybody else."

 "Assumptions are a dangerous thing," replied his counterpart, eyes now lingering on the head wound. "I wouldn't make too many of them right now."

 "You -" started the other. 

 "Now," interrupted Dark, putting a single digit to the human's mouth, "None of that. You assume I'm here alone, but I can assure you that the only thing standing between you and the  _others_ is me. So careful with what you say."

 "You're all fucking insane," hissed Mark, spitting at the finger against his lips. He couldn't help but look either side of him, expecting to see them lurking. "I'm never letting  _any_ of you out again. You're all right where you belong!"

 Dark leaned back a little bit, as if surprised, before he slipped back in until their noses were almost touching, "Have you ever wondered if we're all really just inside your head . . . or if it's  _you_ that is the one doing all those horrendous things?"

 "You're real," Mark growled. "I _know_ you're real - but the rest of the world doesn't." As much as he denied it, he knew the truth. He knew what they were: alive - a part of him. "I won't let you out, no matter what you do to me. I won't."

 A reoccurring mantra the demon found his lesser-half always repeating when it was close to waking time. A mantra that reminded himself that he was only dreaming, of course where they could hurt his internal body, but that's as far as the damage would remain. Lingering with the conscious thoughts of anger and betrayal in his mind as he went about his life once more. 

 Everything seemed to ride on those words, deriving strength from the belief that he could keep a thing like Dark locked away in his mind; a hopeful wish and something he rarely succeeded at. As the demon grasped his jaw in a powerful hold once more and turned his head to the side, Mark cringed when he felt that rough tongue flicker out and lick from the base of his jaw to the very wound itself.

 The demon fed, Mark trembled pathetically beneath him, recalling the power his counterpart could fester from simple pain he brought to the subconscious soul. It started a couple of years ago, a twitch here . . . ten minutes he couldn't remember happening there. Things began to evolve the larger his channel became and his fans began to notice it happening a lot more, feeding into the thing living inside his head.

 Rumours spread that he had an evil demon festering in his mind, flicking in and out of control. They didn't know the truth; the blackouts occurred a little more often, things were being left behind and then suddenly, this demon had a face, a personality and more importantly, it had a name which gave it the power. To an unwitting channel of innocents, they saw it as a creative way to show off a talent.

 It was everything Mark tried to ignore, but when whispers of evil delights and moments of lapsed control passed over to the creature, it was hard to ignore the existence of someone there. After the first incident of harm to himself, a warning and reminder, Mark figured out how to contain him. It didn't stop Dark from trying to get out, from raging inside his head whenever he was cut off from the controls.

 Every now and then, Dark figured out how to escape when the others started to appear, slipping into existence in their own areas of his soul that forced him to imprison more than just one. There were always gaps now. The last time Dark had escaped through a crack, he had watched through his own eyes as the demon played with his life, balancing him along rooftops and empty bridges that would assure pain, if not death, if he fell.

"Perhaps I'll pay a little visit to that sweet little bird of yours," whispered Dark, his brow arched, "I've been  _dying_ to get my claws into her again." 

 He was pushing buttons just to see whether what the others had been saying was true, so when Mark's face twisted into a snarl, he knew he had touched a nerve, "You won't lay a hand on her  -!"

 "Won't I?" Dark couldn't help but press a little harder, "I'll see if I can really make her  _sing_  -"

 "Son of a bitch!" snarled Mark, thrusting his hands against Dark's chest - though as powerful as he thought the shove may be, the demon jerked a little, only to snap right back. "If you even think about it, I will  _kill you -!"_

 A hefty thump against the walls resounded down the corridor they were in, jerking both apart. Dark instantly took to his feet and rounded on a heel to look behind him at the wall closing them in their endless cage. 

 His mouth twisted in a snarl, aggravation lingering on those lips. "He's  _mine!"_  

 Mark looked instantly towards the concrete as if he knew what was making that noise and almost willed it away from existence. He didn't have any control here. He understood why the resounding thump had been made, not to free him from the demon's clutches, but to deter him from promising anything that would provoke the creature into desiring control.

 When he finally looked at the posture Dark had taken, the clenched hands at his sides as he strained to remain in place, head slowly inclining towards the tender tapping against the walls, he recognised the structure as defensive. There were only two things that truly terrified the demons in his head, being pushed out by something better or death. The way Dark now held himself spoke of not only curiosity, but fear. 

 "That noise," he spat, turning now from the wall. Fully dilated eyes now landed on his lesser half on the floor, "what is it?"

 "I do-don't know," Mark breathed heavily. 

 " _Who_ is it?"

 "What makes you t-think it's a who?" 

 "Because we're trapped in your head." Dark reached forward and jabbed a finger against Mark's wounded forehead, pinning his skull to the wall. He crouched. "We've all known something's been running around here for a long time, keeping us here. They gave it a name, but you know what it is, don't you?"

 "No," Mark twitched his head,  _no._

"Your heart skips, Mark." The demon's eyes twitched down to his chest, drawing that finger down, down . . . until he pressed against the place that muscle beat faster. "Someone isn't telling the truth . . ."

  _Beep. Beep. Beep._

"Shit," cursed Dark under his breath. 

 There was only so long he could play his game but one thing Mark could always depend on was the reliability of dragging him to his hell at the same time. He learned long ago to set an alarm clock whenever he felt exhausted, drained inhumanly every hour, on the hour. As desperately as his counterpart would want to hold him here, a conscious mind could be called back to reality. 

 It was time to wake up. 

  _Beep. Beep. Beep._

Dark cursed something under his breath when he realised what little chance he had now to leave this place. It would take a lot more emotional and somewhat physical trauma to slip through the weakened, tired mind of his counterpart. Eyeing him, the beast ground his sharp teeth together, too proud to lose the man that had finally fallen into his grasp. He couldn't let him go that easily. 

 Suddenly, Dark struck out and grabbed Mark by the throat, hauling him to his feet to slam him against the opposite wall. A snarl crossed his features, angrier by the second. The way he held him spoke a need to keep him here, aware that right now, this was his conscious reality, the hell he had to live in with the figments of his imagination, but he obviously saw something Mark could not for his fingers tightened. 

 "When I get out of here, Mark, and I  _will_ get out of here -" He snarled those words, voice gone in a rage of anger, "- I'm going to have the adventure of a lifetime and none of your pathetic, little tricks will stop me -!" 

 A heavy thump once again sounded louder than the alarm bells "outside" the walls, drawing Dark's attention away for only a moment.

 "- Whoever I choose, I'll let them know that it is all your fault -!"

_"Mark!"_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -songbirds-  
> authors note | 15.05.2018
> 
> Dark hasn't had his morning coffee for several weeks, so he's feeling a little agitated. Probably doesn't realise things are about to go downhill from here on out. So, you're probably wondering why Mark has the alters locked up in his mind - well, you'll have to wait to find out.
> 
> -the writer.


	3. Monday

_original posting date:_ 26.05.2017

|| monday ||

  _"Mark."_

That was his name, but he couldn't be too sure if he was really hear of still  _there._ Mark registered the change in the cool air of the room, the heavy burden of a stuffy atmosphere that strangled him to consciousness. It was hard to breathe, and even harder to move. His body refused to respond to any natural movement one would make when waking up, the stretch of tired, relaxed muscles that needed to come back to life in order to do the simple task of moving. 

 Only, his body had other ideas; as soon as he went to swallow the cool, dry air, his throat closed on him and he choked. He could still feel those fingers around his throat, the bruising hold that had tried to keep him captive in that dark world. He knew it was possible, especially when it was wearing on the human body, weakening the hold on reality and opening his  _meat suit_ to a whole range of possession; was it possible that he had just taken control in time -?

 Mark's eyes thrust open to a dying light from the outside world, the flood of warm, Spring day-rays seeping in through the glass panes. Except, his world was on it's side and as his choking seizure passed away, he realised that what was now tickling his face was not the cotton of his pillows, but the carpet of his living room floor. For a moment, Mark stared out the long pane-windows, searching the city for recognition as to what had happened to him. 

 The sun was setting outside, his whole day had passed and he only now realised that he was looking out into the burning ball of fire blinding him. He closed his eyes with a groan and rolled carefully onto his back. He couldn't remember how he got there, or at least, ended up on the floor. When he moved, a searing pain shot up his spine; he realised he would be bruised, having fallen to the ground like a dead man - the noise must have been a shock for his neighbours below. 

 Laying there, breathing, heart-pounding and afraid, Mark waited. There was always a catch to coming back to reality, especially alone. Sometimes, it was merely a cruel trick they played on him to draw him away from the idea that he was safe in his world. They would give him a few seconds to relax, to breathe a sigh of relief and enjoy the protection this reality could offer and then they would mess with his mind, break him down until he was close to breaking point - only then could they take over. 

 The seconds passed, as he lay there, feeling flooding back to every muscle, Mark came to realise that he was indeed home and the tickle he was experiencing down his jaw was touched gingerly by his numb fingers. Spittle coated his fingers from his earlier choking, forcing him to roll back onto his side, placing his hand on the rug in order to pick himself up onto his hands and knees.

 As he peeled open his eyes, he could just see his glasses nearby. As he reached for them, he realised his skull was throbbing. It was a reminder for him that they were still in there, capable of pulling stunts like that to weaken him, to weaken his hold over the cages he locked them up inside off every day. They thrust him into a world of need and expected him to open the doors; something he just couldn't do after the last accident. 

 Mark knew the headache would subside and they would grow weaker once again, locked away as his conscious fought back and bound them. A faint glance at his watch gave him the time. The last thing he remembered was getting up that morning to take Chica for a walk - After a moment, he realised his hands were shaking, not out of exhaustion, but fear. Mark looked at the trembling limbs as if they were not his own hands, strangers hands that had just felt what it was like to punch a brick wall.

 No matter what, the pain they caused carried over into the skin suit  _he_ had to wake up in; there would be no sign of injury, no aftermath in the form of bruises, but beneath the flesh, he would feel the pain as if he'd caused it. There was nothing wrong with the slender fingers or the upturned palms, they just didn't feel like his, gloved by the flesh of another. That was always the way when he woke up from dreams like that:  _nothing_ felt like it belonged to him. 

 There was a whine from nearby. A familiar whine of a familiar friend that drew his attention towards the open kitchen, where just tucked behind the island, he saw the golden paws of his friend. He could see her nose poking out as she lay there, whimpering for the sake of his situation - hiding because she knew that not every time he opened his eyes did he come back as her friend.

 "Chica." God, he sounded terrible, but the animal responded and shimmed herself forward until she could look around the corner, look at him - "Come here, girl."

 She snorted at him. 

 "Hey," he pulled a face. She whined. "Okay, okay -"

 Mark knew the drill and that's what he loved most about his beloved girl; she was always weary of him. There were several times she had been the brunt of a punishment just to remind Mark that they were all very real and _very_ capable of hurting the people and the things that he loved, but it was those forms she didn't trust. Chica was a very clever girl, a creature he needed to rely on more than she would ever comprehend. She knew the difference; she helped _him_ know the difference.

 Slowly, his digits uncurled until his palm was flat and he held his limb into the air, shakily before her as if the muscles were exhausted, he waited. Hesitantly, Chica approached until her nose bumped the base of his palm and she inhaled, a sweetly deep intake of his fleshy, sweaty scent which explored all over his hand. It took longer than he expected too, but Mark knew to be patient. If there was anybody in this entire world that could tell him whether or not something had come through with him, it was Chica. 

 After what seemed like an eternity, Mark saw a flash of gold from behind the beast as her tail suddenly perked and began it's excitable fanning motion, just happy that he was awake and talking to her again. If dogs could talk, Mark imagined he'd be getting a verbal lashing for scaring her. She grunted in appreciation and almost cat-like, bumped the top of her head into his hand for attention, grunting in the weird way she did when she was desperate for a scratch behind the ear or acknowledgement for being a good girl.

 "Thanks."

 A lopsided grin tackled Mark's lips, running one hand through her mane as the other scratched beneath her chin, praising her.

 "Good girl," he smiled, grasping her head between both hands to kiss her nose.

 She snorted again and he laughed.

 "Did you wake me up?" She looked at him as if he had grown a second head. "No, I know - you can't talk."

 Chica would never talk back and he knew that, but she was good conversation when he was siting alone in his apartment, watching horror movies or calming down from yelling excessively at a game play. Company that he needed whenever the times were getting lonely. Just as he went to promise her a treat, there was a shrilling cry from the table, turning his attention towards his mobile now singing on the glass of the coffee-table as the case itself vibrated in motion. 

 Screen flashing, Mark blinked a couple of times before realising he was too far away to notice who was calling him, even as he adjusted his glasses. With Chica now bolting away from him in a form of restlessness he had learned to ignore, Mark crawled towards the table and reached for his phone. It took everything not to make pained noises as he grabbed his phone and pressed the round green button, caring not to look at who was calling him.

 "Yeah, hi - Mark here," he suppressed a yawn.

 "So, you  _are_ alive."

 "Pardon?"

 "- and here I thought I was going to have to call the police or something."

 The man blinked for a moment. "Odette?"

 "Who else would it be?" the confused, slightly Irish-accented tone remarked. Mark slowly pushed himself to his feet, grunting when his legs wavered a little. "Are you all right?"

 "Rough nap," he lied, wriggling each limb out individually. "What's up?"

 "You remember how you said that we could do this thing and you'd pick me up from the airport when I got here?"

 He nodded. "Yeah, on Monday."

 "Well, change of plans." Mark made a noise that prompted her to continue, "I'm currently standing outside a door that I've been knocking on for the last twenty minutes, seconds away from calling for help."

 "Wait, what?" he frowned, running his fingers through his hair. 

 "And I've got some very cold pizza," she added. When he said nothing, she continued, "You must have had a heavy nap not to have heard me calling for you."

 "You're outside my door?"

 "You were supposed to be outside the airport four hours ago," she counted. He checked his watch again, swaying uncertainly. Was this real? "You didn't call or anything, so I came over as soon as I could."

 "Why are you outside my door?" Mark breathed quietly, noticing that Chica was now impatiently sitting by the front door. 

 "Mark?" she asked, "Are you okay? You seem spaced out -"

 "Yeah, no -" he coughed quickly, correcting himself, "I mean, I'm fine. Just didn't realise it was  _today_ you were coming."

 "You know it's Monday, right?" she questioned, sounding impatient. 

 When those words left her lips, Mark couldn't help but glance down at his watch, which suddenly felt very heavy on his wrist when the time registered, when the _date_ registered. The digital clock face told him the time. It was just after 6pm which explained why the sun was beginning to set, but what it didn't explain was why, just beside those digital numbers, the day was not as he remembered it to be before he'd collapsed. It was  _Monday,_ just as Odette had said it was.

 Monday - which meant that for almost a full, uninterrupted day, he had been laying on the floor, almost in a death-like state . . . Almost like _he_ had known she was coming today. The thought made him sick to his stomach as he hesitated to answer his friend. Odette was a beautiful soul, a close friend who he had been through thick and thin with over the years of their friendship. They often spent the limelight together, but it was times like these where she needed him to be completely honest with her; Odette had seen a side of him that most of his community thought to be a made up reality, a joke for their entertainment. 

 Although they very rarely spoke about it, more for Mark's state of mind than her own, sometimes Mark had terrible dreams to remind him how capable they were to use him to hurt the people he loved. Sometimes, pulling him down into his subconscious was a power play, because minutes in that world could be hours to almost full days in his own. Once or twice, Mark had concerned his friends with zoning out, momentary lapses of concentration that they had to snap their fingers in front of him to get him  _back._

 Mark stared at his front door nervously. It seemed like weeks ago since they had planned this incursion on their community; they were known for tormenting their followers with indications of meet ups, companion videos, tormenting twitter conversations when they had little projects planned and in the making. It was why Odette graced his door with her presence today. They had taken small hours out of their usual schedules in order to accumulate everything they needed in order to pass off this huge project they had set for themselves.

 They had been tormenting their followers for weeks, all the while Odette was home in England for a few weeks to spend some time with her family. It had been very hard to keep everything on the hush-hush, but somehow they had managed, even including keeping Odette's early return to America a secret. As excited as he had been about homing one of his best friends, he realised he was staring at his door in pure uncertainty that what stood behind it was even his friend.

 "It's Sunday," he mumbled under his breath.

 He could almost sense the Irish lass frowning on the other side of the door. "Mark, it's  _Monday._ I landed a few hours ago. Sebastian picked me up from the airport."

 "Sebastian," he repeated, as if the name was foreign to him.

 It wasn't; he knew Odette's brother very well, as well as he knew the woman standing patiently on the other side of his front door. Sebastian Gallagher was one of the sweetest, kindest souls that he had the honour of being friends with and Mark had a lot of friends, not all who would have entrusted him as the godfather to their adopted son, or even chance him being sensible as the best man at his wedding.

 Sebastian lived about a thirty minute drive from Mark with his husband, Alexander Morrison, a special agent in the police force. They lived with their adopted son, Marlowe, who was born with nerve deafness, had been orphaned just a year previously during one of Alexander's cases. It was a terrible time for the family, but somehow they still came out with smiles on their faces. Mark could not have been more honoured to be named as Marlowe's godfather. The pair would spend every other weekend together after all and the boy was such an inspiration to many who met him.

 Right now, though, Mark was having trouble remembering any of that. Trying to recall what the family even looked like made his head hurt. This wasn't unusual, the confusion. There were always side effects to being yanked from his own consciousness so suddenly into the depths of his mind, a place where no human had the right to be, mentally or physically. It was straining on the brain, the organ had to recalibrate itself again after such a stress.

 Mark had experienced momentarily loss of thought and amnesia after such trauma, but nothing as long as this; he looked at his watch again, "It's Monday . . ."

 "Mark," Odette spoke softly, but firmly, "Open the door."

 "I'm fine," he muttered.

 "Let me decide that."

 Mark was almost certain that he was not supposed to hear those words when his mind registered the beeping tone in his ear. She hung up and there was a furious knocking at the door again, an order to come and open the door before she did, this time, call for help. The state of panic she must be in right then - Mark's stomach churned. He locked his phone and slipped it back into his pocket, searching for the last lock that would allow him to pull the door open and reveal the wonder of friendship standing behind it. 

 As he stood there, Mark attempted to make up an excuse as to why he was so out of it. She wouldn't believe he was drinking, because the whole world knew that Mark couldn't and she certainly would not take lack of sleep as an answer, not after he'd just stated he'd just woken from a nap. Nothing compared to what she was going to come up with when she saw the state of him and Odette would patiently wait with that look until he told her the truth.

 Mark inhaled and slowly peeled the wooden barrier open. "Hey."

 The first thing he saw were those vibrant, beautiful emerald eyes as her hand drove her sunglasses up onto her head, blinking slightly to adjust to the glare of the dying sun behind him. He could see her perfectly, the worry contorting the muscles of her face as she swayed worriedly on the other side of the door. Her freckled cheeks were taunt, her nose scrunched in slight uncertainty as she looked upon him, doing her very best not to bombard him with questions while they stood in a very public manner.

 It was taking everything she had not to barge right into the room and mother him out of the answers he would eventually tell her when everything had recalibrated. She held back because she knew this was  _Mark,_ a stubborn pain in her ass who liked to try and handle things himself. This was his good friend of eight years, biting her tongue as they stood there in silence, like strangers who had never met until now.

 Mark could smell the lingering aftermath of warm pizza, he could see her travel bag dumped on the floor at her feet - she had been standing there a while, causing a commotion to get him to wake up or open the door. Tucking the dark, bloody locks of her fringe behind her ear, Odette Gallagher folded her arms and inclined her head, inspecting him quietly. Her fine, narrow features only expressed when she shifted closer to fully open the door, forcing Mark to stand there, towering just several inches taller than her, as if he had been caught in the middle of a crime.

 Those glowing emeralds looked over his rugged form as concern creased her brow. "Well, you look like shit."

 "Hello, Odette," Mark mumbled oddly, like a scorned child. 

 "Don't  _hello_ me," she returned, glaring at him. "You look like you've been to hell and back."

 "I've had better days," he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. 

 "You've seen better days," she remarked, the tinge of Irish leaking through her British-soaked accent. "You coming down with something?"

 "No, just a rough night," he explained. She didn't believe him. "I promise."

 "When was the last time you had sleep - proper sleep?" she asked. Odette wasn't one to just let these kinds of things go, because she knew if she dropped the subject, they wouldn't talk about it and they both knew that wasn't healthy. "And a shower?"

 "Are you going to come inside?" he replied, stepping away from the door to let her in. 

 Odette made a noise in the back of her throat, like a naughty child huffing in complaint. He was brushing her off for her own sake, that much she could tell and that made her all the more curious to find out what was ailing him. Mark respected her for that; Odette had been through her own identical hell, in a much more physical way that had shunned her from her community, her friends and her family until it had almost killed her.

 It had taken months of Mark pressing her for answers to get to the truth, to rescue her from her living nightmare and it was because of Odette, that after his own ordeals, Mark found the strength to somehow continue on with his life. She knew of his troubles, she had seen first hand what they were capable of and thought she sometimes struggled not to blame every bad day on  _that_ situation, he could always tell when her mind wandered to the possibility of it being the reason Mark was in such an  _off-_ mood. 

 Neither one moved, observing the other. One out of concern and the other in awe. He gulped in the fine attire of jeans that hugged her thin waist as a long vest-line reached her thighs. She cuddled herself in a stitch-blue hoodie with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and her trainers impatiently tapping the floor, while Mark stood there, looking as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards. His tracksuit bottoms were scruffy, his shirt looked haplessly misplaced on his torso and he was missing a sock - something he only noticed when he looked down to the floor to watch her foot tap the ground.

 Eventually, Odette relented and grabbed her things, stepping into the apartment. "I thought I might have to camp out in the hallway."

 "Ha-ha," Mark muttered sarcastically. He reached for the pizza box in her other hand. "It's good to know you haven't lost your sense of humour." 

 "You're going to have to tell me what's going on," she said. Mark stiffened as he walked towards the kitchen, "Something's not right with you."

 "Just lack of sleep," he told her. 

 "Mark," she pressed. 

 "Not right now," he relented finally. As soon as he placed the pizza box on the counter, he looked at her, tiredly. "I don't want to talk about it right now."

 "Okay then," replied Odette, setting her bag down on the coffee table. "Not tonight."

 Inhaling the smell of cold pizzas, he plucked one lid open to see that Odette had chosen a half-half pizza to accumulate the late evening snacking. Mark suddenly felt as if he hadn't eaten in hours and he cursed inwardly at the sharp pain ripping through his abdomen. The last thing he needed was to give Odette further reason to pick back up the line of questioning, so he made himself look busy until the gargling stopped.

 "Your room's all made up," said Mark casually, "and your snack drawer has been restocked."

 "Thank you," she grinned. 

 Mark had lived in the same apartment for the last three years, to maintain a normalcy for his friend who, shortly after her ordeal, had struggled to handle the outside world. Odette moved in with him not long after her release from hospital to cope with her rehabilitation to the understanding that not every human in the world was out to cause her harm. It was several months before she found the confidence to stand on her own two feet again. 

 Now that he looked at Odette, he never would have imagined the kick-boxing Queen to be the victim of domestic abuse. She was always so content with life that it had been hard for all her friends and family to see beneath that war-torn smile, she was suffering. Mark had never been in a situation involving that kind of abuse; he had read about it, seen movies about it and even documentaries or the news revolving around the worst of cases, but never  _been_ a part of it. 

 It had been a little over three years since Odette's ordeal. It was why she could so easily read him when he had a bad day. She never assumed the worst, because it was not within her to believe that everything was down to that kind of demon haunting him. Sometimes, like every other human being on the planet, Mark Fischbach just had bad days and then there were those days, like today, when her concern was frighteningly on point. 

 If they had learned anything from Odette's recovery over the last three years, it was never to push the situation. Odette knew when Mark was ready to tell her, he would. Although the world could never know about his ailment, they would think he was crazy after all, she would be ready to hear what he had to say, provide comfort if he needed it or a good reminding as to why he was the stronger of them all, capable of overcoming this daymare whenever it struck. 

 "Mark?" Odette moved into the open kitchen with Chica at her heels, the dog panting heavily in excitement. "You in there?"

 "What?" he looked at her, brow arched. "What were you saying?"

 "I asked if you're going to stare at that pizza all night," she replied, "or should I just take it to the neighbours - you know, after all the concern." Bright emeralds searched his face as she reached for the pizza. "Maybe they'd enjoy it -"

 "Stop," he rolled his eyes, pulling the box away from her. 

 "Can you get the door," she asked, moving towards the sink. "The catch caught again. You have to get your landlord to see to it."

 "I did last week," replied Mark. "They said the buildings weird - there's nothing they can do." He made his way towards the door, adding, "They offered me a discount on rent instead."

 "For a faulty doorway they should be able to fix?" said Odette, brow raised.

 "Well," he said, "Unless you want them to knock the building down -"

  _Mark._

 For a moment, he thought Odette was interrupting him, but when he looked towards her, she had moved around the counter and taken the pizza box in hand, diving their separate halves onto two plates to warm up. Her attention focused on the plates alone and her mouth tight-lined, as it always was when she was concentrating on what she was doing. She wasn't quite one of those ones that stuck their tongue to the corner of their mouth when they were focused, but it was still a cute gesture of concentration. 

 It was from the corner of his eye that he noticed the light at the end of the hallway flickering, just faintly, which was strange because the landlords building manager had replaced the hallway light bulbs only the week previous. Nudging the door open just a little, Mark took a look out into the hallway, where at the very end, just beneath the light, reality began to warp, distorting slightly as the universe would say, if he were drunk.

 This time, it was different and he felt frozen to the spot, unable to move or make a sound the longer he looked. A darkness smouldered in like fog rolling off the horror banks in his games and shadowed the base of the decisional turn until his eyes flickered to something gripping a hold of the wall. Long slender fingers that seemed to curl slowly around the pastel wallpaper and drawer itself into sights. His own tightened on the door, feeling the pounding of his heart against his chest as a figure began to emerge, shying from the flickering light every time the bulb managed to click back to life only to progress when it was off, seconds longer than the last time.

 He exhaled sharply.  _Odette._

 And that was all it needed to know that it was being watched. A jaw turned towards him, almost cat-like with the way the figure held it's humanoid head. It had no definitive shape, no male or female appearance that told Mark how to address the entity that was impossibly crawling into reality before his very eyes until bright red pools opened to look at him and a cruel, cunning split through the flesh of it's "face" revealed pure, white enamel of a sinister grin that made Mark too terrified to even move -

 "What you looking at?" 

 Arms looped around his shoulders, a chin hooked onto his shoulder to look out into the empty hallway and Mark practically leapt from the touch, "Jesus Christ -!"

 "Slow down, Mark," Odette raised her hands in surrender. There was a smile on her face, but she wasn't laughing. "I think you've been playing way too many horror games this year."

 Mark looked from her, back to the hallway, towards the light that flickered just once more before he closed the door, "That wasn't funny, Odd." 

 "You were zoning out again," she replied.

 "That's no reason to scare the shit out of me." Her brow arched. "Besides," he remarked, ensuring the door was closed, "I haven't played any horror games this week."

 "Oh, yeah," she replied. Her thumbs hooked into her pockets as she swayed on her heels, "You've been playing UNO with Wade -" He looked at her, "- I was watching on the plane."

 Mark rubbed the back of his neck again, "I'm sorry I didn't come and get you. I know Sebastian was probably busy -"

 "Ah, plane landed late anyway," she shrugged it off. It was to make him feel better, but it didn't help. "And I was happy to see Marlowe again. He's had a growth spurt since the last time I saw him."

 "That's good," Mark nodded.

 "He said you cancelled your weekly going-out day last week." There it was, straight back to the concerned seriousness. "Don't look at me like that."

 "I had things to do," confessed Mark. "Something came up - I had to take care of it."

 "And now this weekend -" she continued. 

 "Odette," he started.

 "Mark," he was firmly interrupted. He realised he was still scratch the back of his neck when she seized his wrist to stop him. "I'm worried about you."

 "I'm okay," Mark lied through a terribly unconvincing smile. "I've just been overworking myself a bit these last couple of days. I passed out on the couch. Must have slept the entire day."

 "You need to take better care of yourself," she mumbled, releasing his wrist. "

 Soft, chocolate browns once more shifted on the door as if wondering whether the entity was still out there, waiting for him to open the door like some kind of horror game; part of him was still trying to figure out if this was some kind of cruel trick. They were capable of playing such dirty tricks on his mind to make him question his reality. Their goal was simply to weaken his revolve so they could take control, but things like that took energy. 

 Things like that didn't just manifest at the end of the hallway, best friends didn't just show up a day early from a planned trip home - Suddenly, the whole day he'd missed was a weight on his aching mind and Mark shifted with a grunt. "Fuck."

 Odette was two steps ahead of him, when she turned to look at him, "You okay?"

 "Is it really Monday?" he had to ask, even as Mark looked at his watch again to clarify. 

 "Yeah," she said. Slowly, Odette made her way back to him, stopping just a breaths-length away in concern. "Are you sure you're okay? Are you having  _nightmares_ again?"

 "We should eat," said Mark. When he looked up at her, he smiled as best he could. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."

 "Well, if that's the case," she said, "Why don't you go upstairs and get a shower and I'll warm up the pizza?"

 "You don't have too -" Mark started. 

 "Go on," she insisted, "I got it."

 "Sure?" he asked. 

 "You know, I'm almost tempted to just eat your pizza too, considering the circumstances of abandonment I faced earlier." The look on her face was appraised by the joking smile, a beautiful twist on her lips for attention before he chuckled. "Go."

 "All right," said Mark, nodding his head. He turned on his heel when she reached out and brushed her fingers against his skull, frowning. "I got something on my face?" 

 "You got a really nasty bruise," she stated in a matter-of-fact voice. Her warm fingers grasped his jaw to turn his head towards the light. "Did you hit your head?"

 "Probably," he replied. "I know I fell over something the other night. Pretty sure it's from that."

 "Yeah," she replied, "Guess it's hidden by that mop on your head." Mark rolled his eyes. "Go and get that shower."

 "Yes, mum."

 The way he turned from her to head for the stairs, Mark knew when she said nothing in return that she was thinking about how he was lying to her. She had that habit about her, the silence that would follow whenever he wasn't completely truthful with her. It was the insight from his friend that only a couple of years ago had learned what truly went on up in his head and just how damaging it truly could be to his physical body. 

 Odette  _knew_ he was lying about tripping; thin air couldn't have given him the bruise or made him linger in the state that he was in. She had recently just watched his videos and often, she studied face-cam for the reactions because they made her laugh. There were no bruises then and that last video had only been posted a few hours before he passed out on the couch. She wasn't going to ask, though. Mark had to tell her for it to be real.

 Pausing on the stairs, Mark turned leaned a little over the banister, "Thank you."

 "For?" she asked, her brow perked curiously. 

 "Being here," he replied.

 "Always," she smiled weakly at him. 

 Out of all the people in the world to have ever known Mark, the only person who truly knew what was going on inside of his head was standing in that room, looking at him with the uttermost concern for his health. As she watched his feet disappear up the stairs and the bathroom door close behind a silent friend, Odette braced elbows on the counter and rubbed her forehead, wishing away the pounding headache that ailed her.

 "Shit."

 "Well, at least you know he's not telling you  _everything_."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> - SONGBIRD -  
> authors note | 17.05.2018
> 
>  I can assure you right now, she's not talking to Mark. -evil grin- that was a spectacular rewrite that has taken me most of the day to do because unfortunately, I am suffering from a terrible cold that is making my head hurt terribly. And by rewrite, I mean, I hated the first draft of this chapter and inevitably had to spend the last six hours correctly it's horrendous direction. 
> 
> To put into perspective, Mark and Odette have been friends a little over eight years, they've worked closely with one another on their channels, via acting-singing-gameplays-etc. The community know them as really good friends. They've been some tough, real-life ordeals that will be revealed through the story as it affects the direction of the story and that's all you need to know right now. 
> 
> And we will see a little bit of Sebastian and his family later on in the story also. :D


	4. Nightingale

30.05.2018

|| nightingale ||

 There was a certain kind of cold air that she was all too use to when she had company and for that very reason, Odette remained still, her head in her hands until she was ready to acknowledge that she had company at all. It would seem too weird for Mark to overhear her talking to herself before he had even run his shower; sound travelled all too well in the small apartment and the last thing he needed was to learn that Odette had a secret, one that she had not told him. 

 The comfort of the cold was not something someone estranged to the sensation would enjoy. There were cold patches during ghost hunts that were recognised by not only the technology hunters carried around with them, but significant people as well. Usually it meant they had company, but the mind was a strange thing the older it was, it sometimes forgot how to work the human eyes. Odette, on the other hand, had grown familiar to the sensation her entire life, the slight pinch of the flesh as it was assaulted by goosebumps - and the chilling caress of the cold down the spine.

 Company was a strange word for it. Odette, to this very day, struggled to call it anything else. Comfort was an estranged feeling it didn't know how to give. Even if the comforting hand was warm, she would feel nothing but the ignorant intentions to make her understand that although it was her reality, it was not her world. Company seemed to understand the rules these days. Not a sound until they were alone or unheard. It was easier for them to converse that way - interruptions were unlikely. 

 When the rush of warm water pulsed throughout the lower level of the apartment, indicating that the shower was running, heating up for the intended recipient, Odette let out the biggest groan, "You know you can't just pop in on me like that."

 "He didn't hear me," Company said quite certainly.

 Odette put her hands down on the counter and straightened herself, scowling, "You can't be certain of that."

 "Yet, you have this funny little habit of calling me," said Company, "besides, you know he's lying, right?"

 "He said we'll talk about it tomorrow," she replied under her breath. 

 Company laughed. "You know that's not going to happen. He'll find some way to distract you."

 "No," assured Odette. Her brow creased as she fiddled with the rolled arms of her sleeves, emeralds distracted to the stairs, "He looks like he's had it pretty rough this time and I don't want to push him."

 There was a shift of the cold caress, moving to focus more in front of her than to her side. Odette ignored the transaction for the sake of her sanity and grabbed ahold of the cold pizza boxes nearby, only to adjust them to sit in front of her as a reminder that she promised to get them ready by the time he finished his shower. Mark was, if anything, very good at keeping the truth to himself. She learned quickly to unravel his twisted truths to get the base of his emotions over their years of friendship, because there was a world that some just couldn't see.

 It was the quiet, internal battles they all fought at one point or another in their lives. Some suffered a long time and others only a short period. Those were the lucky ones. Reading Mark had become a skill Odette _hated._ It felt like an invasion of his privacy; when he wanted to keep those bad days to himself, she would often guilt trip him into opening up about it. Mark never blamed her for her need to protect him from the same dark hole that it took months for him to pull her out off. 

 Odette knew what it was like down there, alone to your terrible,  _mundane_ thoughts. It was difficult sometimes and sometimes, Mark made it too easy to protect him. He would find a way to distract her though, to avoid talking about the darker things plaguing his mind. He was good at it and that was Mark. He had a personality that others had to see in order for him to keep breathing. That image gave him purpose to fight the bad days, even if sometimes those bad days made him want to stop existing.

 And that was perfectly human. 

 "You made a deal with him," Company interrupted her thoughts. "It's not really a conversation that you both can avoid. He needs to talk, you listen - and I sort the rest out."

 "It's more this time," said Odette, rubbing her shoulder. Her fingers grazed beneath her shirt to massage the flesh, a uncertain tick of hers whenever thoughts travelled into places they shouldn't. "I don't know. It just feels like -"

 "-Everything's wrong, right?"

 "Yeah."

 "Well, you're not wrong," replied Company. "There are things going on that are - unfortunately - rousing the bad ones, but Mark's going to be alright."

 Odette looked at her Company with pursed lips, thoughtful, if she was trying her best to believe it. "Did you come to gloat about something I already know?"

 "No," said Company, "Your concern for him is admirable - and distracting. So, I'll ease your conscious and go back to what I was doing."

 "And what's that?"

 Company paused, and then said quietly, "I got things to handle in the  _Other._ Nothing you have to worry about."

 The sound of a chair scraping back could have cut the silence between them after that statement, the shuffle of a form much identical to her own perched itself on the stool. This was Company, this was a difficult thing to explain to someone who didn't have the _sight,_ and sometimes they were referred to as ghosts. The oddly haunting of demonic and ghostly forces in the world of humans so unaware of their true existence. The mundane population of the human race ignored what was right before their eyes.

 Odette, on the other hand, had been born with the  _sight._ She was raised with it and to this very day, it had made her a little less human. Staring at Company, a companion she had learned to live with, she braced her hands against the counter and listened. This was the part she was good at, listening. Her company had the answers she needed to hear and sometimes, it was not always  _wanted._ If only she wasn't so distracted by the heavy pulse of water rushing through the pipes to heat the water showering her friend. 

 "You're doing it again."

 A pale hand reached across to the fruit bowl nearby, seizing one of the red apples. Odette watched the limb retract and the apple touch the bloodiest of lips, imprisoning a chunk of the apple into ones mouth to enjoy the juicy treat. There was a saying that you would never see your own face, only the reflection of it, but what was sat across from Odette was more than just a reflection of herself. It was a living creature, with almost identical features to her own. 

 There were some differences, however, most notably how dark her lips were or the constant light blush to her usually ashen flesh. She was a painted image of how one would portray their inner darkness, the crude, humiliating thoughts and secrets that created just that dark side of your personality into a perfect being made typically by a creative mind. Beautifully crafted curls fell midway to her shoulders, the darkest of reds a human body was capable of generating for hair.

 Her company was in all respects, Odette's identical, but her eyes - her eyes were what set them apart from one another. They were brighter. Odette bore a set of rather mundane, emerald orbs that had seen a lot in this world that didn't make sense. The woman sitting across from her held a difference in colouration of her irises; one held the mirror image of her own emerald iris, a sharp of a fresh lawn of grass, the other was the unique shade of red most suspected to be the colour of blood just before the oxygen tenderised it to it's darkest of colours.

 The only other difference was the influence of accents, though both spoke with the natural heritage of Irish within them, Odette spoke with a softer Irish slur, infected by several years living in both British and American culture over the course of her lifespan; the creature maintained the heritage of her original accent from the depths of her Irish nature. It was thick, but not so much as to make it impossible to understand her.

 Across from her sat the epiphany of imagination. She was the extension of the brains capability to believe in worlds that could only ever exist in the world of make believe. People like Odette - people like Mark, knew of these worlds, the endless extensions of existence to make life acceptable. Others grew up, forgetting their world existed, they recalled their imaginary friend as nothing more than make-believe, never realising it was so much more than that.

 Across the table sat the one creature who helped her make sense of the unusual world she had been thrust in several years ago. The manifestation of a protector had long since guided her through the hardships of recognising the reality of their world. Company was more than just a figment, she was a friend - and a surprisingly very down to Earth reader of emotions, despite their bond, she had learned to read Odette from even the micro-flinch of her expressions. 

 "Sorry," Odette muttered, avoiding her gaze. She looked down to the pizza boxes and reached for the oven, turning it on. "I can't just flick my emotions off, you know."

 "Aye, that's what's so annoying about you humans," replied her friend. She took another bite of the apple, "but hey - that's why we exist, right?"

 She glared, "Are you here to tell me something useful or just whine about being here?" When her only answer was that of another bite of the apple, her jaw clenched, "Nightingale."

 "What? You said you'd talk with him about it tomorrow," the creature replied, lifting her head. The look on the other's face said it all and she raised her hands in surrender, "Fine, fine. There was an altercation earlier. It's destabilised their holds a little, but -"

 "How bad is a  _little?"_ pressed Odette. 

 "Time was a littl -" Nightingale cleared her throat, "- severely distorted. It was several hours here - a few minutes in there and I'm pretty sure someone got out."

 "Who?" she asked. 

 "Blue," said the other, "but he's harmless," she quickly amended when she saw the look on Odette's face change quickly to horror, "his intentions are not as extreme as you believe." 

 The Irish lass swallowed hard, struggling with her next question, " - . . . Anybody else?" 

 "I saw the good old doctor giving some bad news to a healthy patient." Nightingale lifted a palm and wiped the apple juice from her lips. "Wrongful amputation - or something along those lines. A foot, I think."

 "- Nobody else?"

 "The worst ones are locked up, if that's what you're worried about," she promised calmly. Her palm fixed the collar of her white shirt, before fiddling with the lapels of her waistcoat, muttering, "Barely."

 She was heard, "What do you mean  **barely?"**

 Nightingale swallowed another mouthful, "I mean, Mark's exhausted, mentally. Several hours for the human body in a few minutes is draining and that's what he wanted. I can only do so much, Red."

 "How long have you know it's been a problem?" she asked. 

 "Your human brains are only capable of handling so much," said Nightingale, "I mean, you excelled at handling me because you grew up with me, but this is all still relatively new to Mark. His body still hasn't adjusted to the flux of  _Second's_ that now rely on his existence."

 "How long?" Odette pressed.

 Those bright, mismatched orbs looked up at her innocently, "The last few weeks."

 "And you failed to mention it - why?"

 "I've been busy," came the reply. Nightingale shifted in her seat when she was met by a disapproving look, "I have more than just  _you_ to take care off, you know."

 "Then why hasn't he mentioned it?" 

 "Maybe, the stress of knowing we exist is kind of getting to him," said Nightingale, "You know, he did try to -"

 "That wasn't him," interrupted Odette quickly, silencing the mentioning of that conversation. 

 "Look at this way, then, you both keep secrets from each other. Him and his bruises - you and -" She pointed to herself, as if she was a great triumph in the others life, "-me."

 Odette slumped against the counter, chin in her palms with a sigh, "I'd like to avoid the conversation of having two decades of experience in crazy town, thank you."

 "Then don't hold it against him that he's hiding you from crazy town," replied Nightingale. She placed the half eaten apple down on the counter and folded her arms. "He's protecting you - and I'm doing my best for him, but I'm not his  _Second._ There's only so much I am capable of."

 "I know," Odette breathed quietly. She sounded exhausted herself.

 "I came to make sure you are alright," she continued, with much emphasis on the _you_ which made Odette flinch in realisation. "Your growing worry for him was flooding into the  _Other._ You make it very hard for a girl to concentrate and I can protect him better there then here."

 After some fiddling, Odette shoved the pizza's into the oven. She looked back at her friend, lip caught between her teeth in a familiar nervousness. "Do you think it was right -?"

 It was unusual of Odette to feel so worried in her presence, but tonight, she couldn't help it. There was just something about Mark's behaviour that had her concerned. Explaining to him about a world he had yet to fully understand his capability of controlling was one thing, but making him understand what he flaunted as a public display of creativity was just as dangerous as it was created them. This world was not to be messed with, it was not to be mocked -

 Odette had lingered in crazy town since she was four. Nightingale was existing because their bond had grown and - as far as the mundane was aware - was the only imaginary friend she had that ever came to  _actual_ life. It was a learning curve that took years to control and when your mind finally woke to the realisation that you weren't crazy, the world became a difficult place. Questions and less-than-explained answers were all that it gave you. 

 And suddenly Earth seemed like a far brighter place to be. 

 The last time they had missed the signs, the sleep deprivation, lack of concentration and date keeping, they had almost lost  _him._ Odette had focused on that day for the last year and not a day went by that she wished she couldn't just take Mark and plop him back into the days before he even realised what any of his "thoughts" or spurts of random ideas were really about. Guarding him from that hurt had been her priority since he learned only part of the truth. 

 For Mark, it was just one big nightmare. One that made him question his sanity. Was it him? Did he loose concentration on that game purposefully for audience enjoyment? Why did his anger suddenly come out of nowhere? Odette had never suffered that experience, it was certainly one she was trying her best to relate too, but it had been a part of her life - she was aware how damaging it could be to a newborn. It was that very concern the at had drawn her guardian from her world to help ease the unsettled fears.

 Nightingale stood calmly, "I'm not going to let it get to that again."

 As if the table was not there, Nightingale walked through the very fabric of it's being until she was standing at Odette's side. Surprisingly, despite looking near on identical, the former was a couple of inches taller than the later, which made it a little intimidating to be in her presence whenever they had disagreements with one another. Nightingale remained calmly at her side, though, not to intimidate, but merely to comfort her friend and ease the  _what if's_ off her mind. 

 Lifting an arm around her shoulder, Nightingale tugged Odette close and braced her chin on top of the others head, "Was it the right thing to do?"

 "What?" asked Nightingale. 

 "It's hurting him," Odette continued, "I mean - it's agitating them and they're hurting him -"

 "They're different to the others," agreed the creature gently. Her thumb rubbed the mundanes shoulder, doing her best to comfort, "They're certainly unpredictable and estranged to the other  _Seconds,_ so the safest place for them and everybody else is in the mind that created them. Mark's strong -"

 Odette suddenly shrugged the other off and stepped away, "We could have done something more."

 "You're being human," Nightingale grumbled, as if that was a disgusting thing. "Human's always think there's something more -  _you_ know better."

 Any other day, Odette would have taken offence to being discriminated against by the creature. They had their differences, but at the end of it, they were more like sisters than creator and created. Nightingale was a thing - a human, in her eyes, even if she hated being classified as such a demotion to her Godly existence. Odette was as human as they came; just because she could see their world didn't make her any less human.

 Being aware of another world that had the power to destroy or teach the human mind how to look at their own universe was nothing short of a curse and a gift, but knowing about it didn't make her any less mundane than Mark, a considered newborn struggling with the conception of  _another_ reality. 

 Odette shifted uncomfortably as emeralds stared back to the mismatched pools glistening at her in dislike. The finely dressed creature that stood before her nothing more than the personification of all Odette's emotions in one form, at least, the unseen emotions  _human's_ were known for bottling up inside. It made Nightingale complex and complicated to read. Looking at her now, Odette struggled to make heads or tales of what she was thinking about.

 When she blinked, Nightingale was gone - back in her seat, picking up the apple to enjoy, "Besides," the creature said, disgruntled, "we have far more serious -"

 Having crouched to check on the pizza's, Odette fell uncertain as to why the sudden, unsettling silence made her nervous that they were caught. As she pivoted on her heel to check why her companion had gone quiet, she saw nothing but the apple drop from the air as if it had been suspended there the entire time. In the last moments of their conversation, neither had noticed that the roaring of the water had stopped, the pipes groaning to a still as they relaxed once more. 

 In the seconds leading to a far more important matter Nightingale intended to talk to her _other_ about, she had become aware of the shuffling of feet down the stairs. As the apple fell towards the counter, Odette reached out to snatch a hold of the fruit before it could bounce onto the counter and roll off to the side. The beautiful, yet ungraceful lunge across the counter was midway stopped by the pocket of her hoodie being caught by the oven handle -

 "Hey," Mark called.

 Emeralds snapped towards the living room where further company now stood, in the human, damp form of her beloved friend. Uncertainly amused, chocolate browns were eyeing the display of the female across his island counter, his jaw distinctively clenched to determine what the best words were to say in the moment.  _Hey_ slipped out before he could think, that much Odette could see as he continued to awkwardly stand there, making a judgement of how - and why - the apple had escaped her in the first place. 

 And it  **certainly** did not help that Mark was shirtless.

 Odette gave him the very same look back as if to say,  _I do this all the time._

 Even if the tinted blush of her cheeks gave way to the humiliating thoughts that were rushing through her skull of what he thought when he looked at his mad friend, displayed in a failed lunging pose to catch an apple, it was the shirtlessness that had her distracted from doing the very mundane thing of climbing off the island and initiating further conversation. If only her head wasn't so fluttery -

 There had never been anything sexual between the pair, maybe a hint here or there, a spike of jealously masked by the pleased engagement of the other to another human being outside their friendship, but uniquely, neither had thought about doing the human thing and talking to each other about it. Instead, this was the closest they would get to unique situations that forced them act like foolish school children embarrassed to admit that they liked each other. 

 It was a relationship that produced the cold, raw vulnerability all humans tried to hide from the world and exposed it for their eyes only. Odette knew how remarkably honest Mark could be, even if it was a little irritating at times, he was hardly comfortable these days revealing himself to another person. Odette could see what most others were never introduced too, the quiet reminders that this world really existed for him and it liked to hurt him.

 Although she tried not to ogle for too long, Mark noticed that she was staring and cleared his throat, as if waiting for an answer as to why she was spread over the counter, apple grasped triumphantly in hand and yet not resumed eating. 

 "Er -" Odette started.

 Running his hand through his damp hair, Mark grinned, "Got bored of eating it?"

 "I dropped it," she said quickly. 

 "And you happened to lunge across the table to catch it - did you throw drop it?" marked Mark, draping the towel around his neck.

 "What?" she asked.

 He indicated how she was laying across the counter, "I mean, that's a rather intriguing new way to eat food, Ode, but -"

 "Of course not," said Odette, righting herself. The apple still in hand, she continued to stare at him, eyeing - "I mean, I was eating it like a normal human being, but I'm done." 

 "I thought you didn't like apples," said Mark. His head inclined, curious. "I do believe you claimed they were the vermin of the fruit universe."

 "I thought you were going to have a shower," she replied, putting the apple to the side, hoping to forget it's troublesome existence. "Not a dip-and-run."

 "Hey. I showered. See?" He flashed her a look as he breezed past playfully, stinking of man's shampoo and body wash. "Don't I smell glorious?"

 "You smell of soap," she agreed. He was a little more lively than before at least, but that nagging concern had the words spitting out before she could stop them, "How's your head?"

 "Sore," he admitted. He stopped by the cupboard, looking over his shoulder, "I'll be all right."

 "You should still get some ice on it," she mothered softly. "It'll help with the bruising."

 By the time Odette had turned and braced her back against the counter, emeralds had caught the bruising of his shoulders. Her arms folded, trying to relax her body so that he didn't assume something was up. She had to act under the suspicion that he had merely caught her in the ridiculous act of catching an apple rather than catching the tail end of her conversation with a figment he may or may not have seen.

 Mark's own posture told her another story; he just wanted to forget the details that brought out the concern of his best friend. She couldn't tell if he had seen a far lighter patch of speckled vessels that had been damaged by his fall, scattered in the area of impact when his body hit the ground. She could tell almost instantly how  _hard_ he must have hit the floor to make the bruise alone, but before she could let her inquisitive mind question the state of him, Mark turned to look at her with two plates in hand and she averted her gaze elsewhere.

 "How long have the pizza's been in?" Mark asked. 

 Odette pulled up the sleeve to her hoodie and checked her watch, "A couple of minutes."

 "Good, cause I'm famished - I could eat them both," he grinned.

 "Keep your mitts off mine, Fischbach," she warned him, wagging a finger at him. "I'm not afraid to guilt trip you into submission."

 As Mark set the plates atop of the stove and leaned against the counter beside, browns fell on emeralds with a hesitant uncertainty, ". . . I'm really sorry about the airport -"

 "Don't," she interrupted, silencing him, "I survived without you." The absence of a smile suggested she wasn't joking, but somehow, they both smiled. "Sebastian on the other hand . . ."

 Mark rubbed the back of his neck, "I should call him and apologise."

 "Stop already," Odette groaned, reaching over, she clamped her hand against his mouth. "Your existence is accounted for. That's all that matters."

 _"Omph,"_ was his reply. 

 She dropped her hand, "What?"

 "Okay," he repeated, eyeing her. Stepping away from the counter, he turned and opened up the drawer he had been leaning against, pulling out some oven gloves, "I can't believe you brought me pizza."

 "I can't believe I didn't eat it waiting for you to come back from the dead," she jabbed. He gave her a look and Odette raised her hands in surrender, "Alright, alright, I'll drop it."

 "Thank you," he replied. "So - I got a question for you -"

 "Fire away," Odette said, stepping out of his way. 

 He pulled open the oven door, "Do you fancy a collab after food?" Mark's gaze shifted on her, embracing the warmth that flooded the section of the kitchen as the oven blazed hot. "There's a new horror game."

 "You really think it's appropriate?" she asked, frowning. 

 Mark shrugged a shoulder, "Right now, I could use the distraction - besides, it's a hot topic. Quite scary, apparently, but that's all I know."

 "You mean the new one in VR?"

 "Yup," he grinned. Dumping the trays on the counter, he looked like a imp ready to play his usual tricks on her, that devious chocolate look squinted playfully. "I mean, we'd have to take turns, but it could be fun."

 "Your definition of fun is _not_ my definition of fun, Mark."

 "Are you in?" 

 "Definitely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- songbirds -  
> authors note | 30.05.2018
> 
> I never thought I would get this chapter finished. *wipes brow*. My brain hurts from the last few days of lightning storms England's been flooded with *waves fist as tropical air*, but I finally got it finished after three rewrites and a serious decision on where to end this little chapter. I hope you enjoyed it :D There is certainly a far greater reason for Nightingale showing up when she did - when will she get to tell Odette though - and what is it about? Hhhhoooh.


End file.
